


On Impermanence: Lindsey

by viggorlijah



Series: On Impermanence [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:26:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viggorlijah/pseuds/viggorlijah





	On Impermanence: Lindsey

_"If we lived forever, if the dews of Adashino never vanished, if the crematory smoke on Toribeyama never faded, men would hardly feel the pity of things. The beauty of life is in its impermanence. Man lives the longest of all living things... and even one year lived peacefully seems very long. Yet for such as love the world, a thousand years would fade like the dream of one night."_

_Kenko Yoshida, Essays in Idleness (1330-1332)_

 

* * *

 

When Darla died, Lindsey swept up all her dust. He kept it in a plastic ziplock bag for a week then bought a jar from Pottery Barn. For a moment, he'd thought of the one shaped like a cow, but Darla wouldn't have appreciated the joke. Dru might've, but she was still around, in body if not mind.

So in his new apartment, on the coffee table, next to the clean ashtray and the stack of unread magazines, is a white vase with violets painted on the outside and a tiny porcelain stopper. Made in China stamped on the base, and he smiled at that.

His secretary pages him halfway through dinner. The woman he's with smiles nervously when he excuses himself. This is their third date. He hasn't kissed her yet.

"Angel Investigations called, sir."

"And?"

"A young woman speaking for her employer wanted to know what your evening schedule was. She asked if you would be available for dinner. I suggested drinks at ten, she hung up."

"Clear the security code. I'll handle it alone."

The secretary hesitates. "Yes, sir."

He tells Camille it's a family emergency. Manages to kiss her outside her car. Counting to five and her lips are warm and strange. A company dinner next week, will she come? He remembers how to flirt, like driving after he lost the hand. A little odd, but the wheel's still there. He just can't feel it.

At his apartment, he leaves the door open. Loosens his tie and pours himself a drink.

He's thinking of going on holiday. Paris, Prague. New York, Norway in winter when the nights are long. China. He made a list, going through the firm's files then the duplicates of the Watcher journals. Start where they think she was born, work his way back to Sunnydale.

He daydreams about the trip during elevator rides, court intervals. Planning where to go, how long, what he'd look for. He's got his secretary tracking down the original sewers the Master lived in during the 19th century, pulling up maps and old records about Darla. It's a better hobby than wine-collecting.

Four hundred years.

He's tried to imagine living that long, but all he can come up with are scenes from history films on TV, everything in soft-focus.

Darla remembered the day-to-day things. This hotel, that meal. The clothes she wore then, the fashions she likes now. Angelus in Florence, Angel in China. Angel, Angel, Angel.

After dinner, when she was quite humanly drunk, she told him that Angel wrote journals. Accounts of places they'd been. Collected antiques. Warehouses here and there. Lindsey had tried to raise the topic again, but she'd merely looked past him. One of her bad days.

Ten comes and passes and Lindsey's glass is empty. He's thinking about Napoleon and the Empress Josephine, violets and exile when someone walks in.

He'd forgotten that humans don't need invitations. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.

There's a gun in one hand, loosely held. Gloves on, and leather trousers under an evening jacket. Pretty.

"Angel would like to have Darla's ashes," he says quietly. The accent's fading, and Lindsey squints up, the light from the corridor framing Wesley's lean form, his face in shadow. Contacts. Cordelia's work, no doubt. Get fired, go for a makeover. At least she hadn't gone blonde as well.

"There's a price."

"He won't pay it."

Lindsey puts the glass down, stretches to show his hands are empty and walks around Wesley. Closes the door and comes back, waving one hand to the end of the couch. "Sit."

Wesley balances on the arm, holds the gun pointed down, still cocked.

"Drink?"

"No."

Lindsey pours one for himself and sits down in the center. Spreads his arms along the back of the couch, plastic hand against Wesley's back. "Did Angel tell you how she died?"

"Is that your price?"

"No." Wesley doesn't move when Lindsey's hand moves stiffly against the curve of his leather pants, the white inch of skin where the jacket has ridden up.

"He hasn't mentioned it."

"She attacked a senior partner to give Drusilla time to escape. Got in the way of a stake meant for Angel."

"Intentionally?"

Lindsey shrugs. "Perhaps. It was dark -" flashes of that night. Stink of blood and magic, the growl of the demons, bone crunching as Angel fought, screams cut short as Darla joined in. Stopping short with Drusilla still struggling in his arms, helpless against the firm's manacles, crying for her daughter. Stopping and turning to watch.

Three demons and the black ops team. Angel and Darla fighting back to back, moving in perfect time. He'd seen tapes of Buffy and Angel, but this was something else. She moved as quickly as the Slayer had, but with savage purity. Teeth and claws and all the rage that Angel had, spilt out in blood. He was clean white flesh and she was all gold and red, gorgeous as they danced among the bodies.

Dru whimpering and raising her head, and he'd known then but it was too late, too late to shout a warning, to do anything but watch.

One stake. Angel stepping to the side, Darla leaning after him and - dust.

Angel had kicked in the head of the last black-ops and then walked up to Lindsey. Taken Drusilla, screaming and shaking, from him. Pushed him down onto the ground and walked out of the clearing. Walked without looking back.

"Where's Drusilla?"

Wesley looked past him. Lying. "England. Safe."

"Does he miss her?"

"Is that your price?"

"No. Answer the question."

"I don't know." Looks directly at Lindsey now. "He's difficult to read."

"Are you sleeping with him?" He drinks while the Englishman smiles. A little curve in one corner, amusement and Lindsey returns it.

"Is that your price?"

"No."

"Then I won't tell you."

Abruptly, "I want his journals. With Darla. Copies."

Wesley considers for a moment. "There are a lot. Several dozen. Drawings. Logistically, it would be difficult."

"Start with the earliest five."

"Alright." Wesley slides off the couch and stands. He's taller than Lindsey, and with the gun tucked away under his jacket, slight. Lindsey hands him the vase and he holds it gracefully, long fingers used to handling antiques, weapons. They stand like that, both hands around the urn, fingers brushing, and then Lindsey lets go.

At the door, they pause, half-in, half-out.

"Does he know you're here?"

"No." The Englishman looked straight at him, hard. "I knew what you might ask."

Lindsey leans against the doorframe. He's aware of the distance between them, mere inches. That his shirt's half unbuttoned, his hair mussed and he's flushed from the alcohol. He knows what he looks like and he tilts his head, wets his lips and murmurs, "What would that be?"

Wesley looks him over. Head to toes and back again, and he has to clear his throat to speak, but his voice is steady. "He'd pay that price. That's why I came instead."

Then he's gone, walking down the corridor with the little bit of Darla that's left. Lindsey shuts the door, leans against it and lets himself slide to the floor.

He tries to cry but all he gets are dry heaves, empty sobs.


End file.
